5050
by Housecall
Summary: House is acting strange, and gives Cuddy an odd gift. What's it all about? HUDDY. I know where this story is headed now, so why not come along for the ride?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm not sure yet where this is going, but it keeps sort of trickling out. Hope it's not too ramble-y.**

**I'm not sure yet about the timing. Sometime in season 5, I guess, possibly before Rachel but I haven't decided yet. I'll go where it takes me.**

----

This story both starts and ends with a dream.

Have you ever just _known _something, intuitively, with every fiber of your being? One night not long ago, I had a dream so real that when I woke I knew it would come true. It's sort of like that "Law of Attraction" stuff. I didn't know _how_ I would get from here to there; I just knew what _there_ looked like and I knew I'd arrive. This wasn't a matter of faith or belief. This was _knowing._

I'm a bit on the fence when it comes to the existence of God, but I do know this much: that dream was a gift. From God, from the universe, from my subconscious – I don't know. It's not really relevant. My point is, this _knowing_ gave me hope, and hope gave me courage, and courage allowed me to take steps in a direction I never believed I'd travel again. I guess you could say _I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. _

---

I swear to God, it's not just about the lust.

Okay, it's a little about the lust.

Fine. It's 50/50.

I was thinking about this earlier today while signing off on charts at the front desk. It's one of the more mindless parts of my job; I can get away with a little daydreaming. So-and-so needs antibiotics. Fine by me... _L. Cuddy._ Some poor soul got tetanus from a rusty nail... _L. Cuddy._ Check the doctor first, scan the details, sign. I really only scrutinize the chart when House's name is listed. He's like that one mainstreamed special-ed kid in the third grade classroom – he's completely capable of doing the work; he just needs extra supervision and frequent medication.

Anyway, while signing the charts I felt him come up behind me. I don't mean physically – he generally keeps his sexual harassment verbal. I know how this is going to sound, but I have this weird sort of sixth sense when it comes to House. Probably because we've known each other for so long. House would say I just pick up cues from the environment, like the subtle amusement of the nurse behind the desk or the bristling of a nearby security guard.

He was standing behind me, so close I could feel his warmth and smell... whatever that scent is. (One time I sniffed every bottle of aftershave, men's body wash and shampoo in the local Rite-Aid but I still never found out what it is.) He wasn't saying anything. It's a fun game, the one where he waits until I turn around and smash into him. He gets to feel me up without doing any of the work, I get to press up against him and pretend to be annoyed. Good times.

_L. Cuddy._ Sign off on a transplant. _I'm not turning around this time, House._ Some part of me laughed and said, "Oh yeah?" And once again I was smashed up against him.

"Bagel?" he offered, shaking a white bakery bag beside my ear.

"You're late," I informed him sternly. I sidestepped him and headed for my office. He followed, as I knew he would, not bothering to explain his lateness.

"I need to ask for a day off," he said and made himself at home on my office sofa.

"Well, it's Thursday, and you've come in two hours late every day this week. That's eight hours you've shorted me this week. How about we count that as your 'day off?'"

"Nope. I need tomorrow off."

House was licking cream cheese from his finger, and, daaaamn. For a moment I couldn't answer, so I just pretended to think about it. "Why?"

"I got stuff to do," he said around a huge bite of bagel.

Now this is where I have to make a little confession. I'm a good boss, a nice boss. I don't pry. If an employee needs a day off, it's usually no-questions-asked. I trust my people, even House to some extent, and beyond mere curiosity I didn't much care why he wanted a day off. What I cared about was the fight. Fighting with House makes me feel alive.

Jesus, that sounds pathetic. Whatever. He likes it too, our little back-and-forth verbal foreplay. I know he does.

"What stuff?" I asked casually, and started rooting through some folders on my desk. Somewhere in the pile there had to be something that would interest him.

"I'm helping a friend move."

I gave him my best look of pure incredulity. "Help... friend... If you're going to make something up you might want to avoid including _two_ obvious lies."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll work. I'll have my friend send you the movers' bill."

I didn't answer, a little disappointed. I wanted my argument. It's sick, but I love it when he gets all worked up and pissed. Any emotion is better than none. On the other hand, I realized he didn't really want a day off; he was really just here to get attention from Mommy. I'm okay with that. Again: sick.

Shifting gears, I watched him work on the bagel. He took an obnoxiously large bite, then swept his eyes back to mine. I smiled. "What?" he demanded.

I shook my head, suddenly remembering a recent dream. "Nothing." Keep him guessing – that's my MO.

The blue eyes narrowed and I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Instead I looked down at the files. "I have a case for you."

He grunted in acknowledgement.

"Thirty-six year old male, presenting with rash on the extremities, fever, and abdominal pain."

We went back and forth for a few minutes as we always do, until I jerked the hook and reeled him in. He gets that _look_ when he's interested. His entire demeanor changes, and it's as if the case is a magnet to which every molecule in his body becomes aligned. I felt that delicious charge in the air, that force that pulled him off the couch and toward the red file in my hand.

A moment later he was gone.

----

What was I saying about lust? Oh, right. It's 50/50, half lust, half... other stuff. Honest to God. It took me a while to figure that out. It's all about the eyes, but maybe not in the way you think.

See, House has these vivid blue eyes. I'll spare you the comparisons to the prairie sky. Suffice it to say it's the eyes that do me in. But there's this line that I can sometimes cross when I focus. I have to be fast because House doesn't maintain eye contact with me for long periods. It's a two-part process. Stage One is the part where I want to jump his bones. Stage Two is where I feel like I'm looking directly into his soul. If I can force myself to look past the instant lust, I can get glimpses of the person he never lets out, the vulnerable boy who just needs to be loved.

God, I sound ridiculous. "Boy who needs to be loved?" Some things are cliché for a reason, though. There really is a love-starved boy in there, right between the bored genius and the frustrated playboy.

So later that same day House reappeared in my office and as usual, I put everything else on hold to deal with him.

"Case solved," he said.

I frowned. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be avoiding me, hiding out so I don't send you packing to the clinic?"

"It's not my day."

"You owe me five _hundred_ hours. I can send you any time."

"You won't send me today." He seemed oddly tense as he settled into a nearby chair, hooking his cane over the edge of my desk.

"Why not?"

He was acting weird, even for him. Something was off. "Because, I'm about to do something... nice."

"Really."

"Really." He wasn't meeting my eyes at all.

I dropped my pen, crossed my arms, and leaned back in the chair. "Okaaay."

House propped his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor in uncharacteristic silence.

"Wow," I said with a grin, "you being quiet. This _is_ nice!"

"Shut up, this is hard enough as it is."

A bit taken aback, I fell into a silence of my own. House continued to stare at the floor morosely.

This was a delicate matter indeed. "House," I said softly, "what's wrong?"

He swallowed. "Nothing."

"You look upset. What happened?"

"Nothing. I just – I have something for you."

"Oh. Okay."

Long fingers, of which I was unaccountably jealous, reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled something out. It was too small for me to see at this distance. He set it on my desktop and slid it toward me.

"What's this?" I frowned, trying to scope out his game. "A penny?"

His eyes revealed a split-second flash of vulnerability before the wall moved back into place. "Not just _any_ penny. This," he punctuated the word with a stab of his finger, "is a _lucky_ penny."

"Oh," I said neutrally, sliding the coin a bit closer. It was still warm from his pocket. "You... think I'm unlucky?"

"Not necessarily. That's a logical fallacy. Maybe I just think you need _more_ luck." He shifted, looking uncomfortable, as if realizing he'd just made a big mistake.

Whatever this was, it was making him nervous. You have to tread lightly around Nervous House; when he takes one step forward his fears push him two steps back. Humor releases the pressure. "Or _maybe_ you're trying to say that I need to _get_ lucky."

My joke was the out he evidently needed. Favoring me with a rare half-smile, he stood up. "You said it, not me."

"Well, thank you, House." I tipped the coin into my palm. "I shall treasure it forever." It came out sounding sarcastic – a lie of tone.

----

"Is there something going on with House?" I asked Wilson.

His eyebrows raised skeptically and he dropped a file into his desk drawer. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"He's acting weird."

"Again – I'm going to need more than that."

I looked at him silently for a moment, trying to figure out if he was in on the big joke. I could see that he wasn't. "He gave me something," I said at last.

"Really? What?"

"It's weird."

"I gathered. So what was it? Flowers? Chocolates? An STD?"

I chuckled and pulled the penny out of my jacket pocket. "A penny."

Wilson examined the coin. "A penny. What, for luck?"

"I don't know. He didn't actually say."

I should stop here to inform you that Wilson is _much_ easier to read than House. Utterly guileless, he's pretty much the opposite of House. I can read Wilson like a book, so when the page unexpectedly turned I saw the recognition on his face long before he tried to hide it.

"What?" I asked, leaning forward. "What do you know?"

He looked away, considering. When his eyes returned to mine they were mirthful. "This is good," he said with a smile. "This is _huge._"

"What?"

Wilson only chuckled and flipped the penny over between his fingers. "This is... _wow._"

"_What?_"

"Well," he hesitated, "it's really not my place to tell you." He slid the penny back in my direction. "I'm sure you're dying to know, but I think it would be better for House to do this at his own pace."

"Do _what?_" But I already knew, didn't I?

"Just leave it alone for a while, Lisa. Trust me?" Wilson smiled reassuringly. "And _keep that penny._"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Okey-dokey then, let's see where this goes next. In all honesty, I have nothing more than a very loose plan and the confidence that the story already exists, and it's merely my job to put it on paper. Wish me luck.

----

What a week. Sixteen-car pileup, heart transplant, H1N1... I'd've said "What next?" but you know what always happens whenever someone says that. Not that I'm superstitious, but why tempt fate?

I needed a minute to recover from back-to-back meetings and a couple of angry former patients getting ready to sue. Fortunately, there's this depressing lounge no one ever uses, over by Pathology. It doesn't have any windows or fridge, so the lab techs usually sneak into one of the other lounges instead. The door doesn't lock, so House never hides there either.

I pulled off my jacket and shoes, and heard a light _clink_ as something metal slipped from my pocket and hit the floor. Crashing on the couch, I scooped up the penny and examined it thoughtfully. Pretty normal as pennies go. 1982, Lincoln head, dull and a bit scratched but otherwise nothing special. Still._ Keep that penny,_ Wilson had told me. _It would be better for House to do this at his own pace_.

Whatever. Clearly Wilson knew something I didn't, but at the moment I was too tired to give it much thought. Besides, I'm not an idiot – I knew what this was about. And, if you want to know the truth, I didn't have much confidence in House's ability to take it to its natural conclusion. Plain and simple, he wanted me. He'd _always_ wanted me. The problem is that he was afraid. Afraid of change, afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of hurting me, afraid of the emotional intimacy of a real relationship.... just afraid.

_He is the most frightened fearless man I've ever met,_ I thought, which made a lot more sense in the context of my exhaustion. I closed my eyes, penny in hand, and drifted.

---

_I am sitting at my office desk, and House is sitting across from me. He's pushed his chair back away from the desk so he can freely twirl his cane. We don't speak. I'm marveling over his fingers, those dextrous, talented hands. _

_He's thinking. He looks... not worried, not frightened, just contemplative. For some reason this gives me hope. Finally his eyes sweep upward to mine, and the walls are gone. It's all there, laid bare, just for me. As if to seal the deal, he smiles – not his trademark smirk, but a genuine smile, and – _

_----_

I was startled awake by, of all things, _Mmm Bop._ "What the hell?" I said groggily, nearly falling off the couch as I rose.

"_What._" House was sitting in a chair opposite the couch, feet on the coffee table, speaking irritably into his cell phone. He met my eyes briefly and looked away, seeming thoroughly put out. "You're interrupting my lunch date, Foreman."

"Damn it," I muttered, fumbling with one of my strappy heels. There's nothing worse than being rudely wakened from a lovely dream, especially such a vivid one. Even worse, I'd been dreaming that same fragment for a week and I never got to see what happened next. I'd been sure this would be the time. Very annoying.

House snapped his phone shut and watched me struggle with my remaining shoe. "Thanks a lot," I said bitterly.

"Sorry," he replied sarcastically. "I didn't mean to interrupt your beauty sleep, but you're needed out front."

"What now?" I groaned. Glancing down, I saw my penny on the floor, where I'd apparently dropped it while asleep.

"The cops brought in a murderer or something. Shot in the kneecap. They need you to sign some stuff."

"You came in here to get me, but you thought you'd make yourself comfortable first? How did you even know I was here? Why didn't you just page me?" _He was watching me sleep!_ said a joyous voice in my head.

His eyes flickered to the penny. "You dropped something."

Now here was a bind. I could say it wasn't mine, but then he'd pick it up as soon as I left the room and certainly recognize it, if it had the significance Wilson had implied. Yet if I grabbed it now, it meant admitting I'd been carrying it around for three days – and worse, sleeping with it.

_Honesty's the best policy. _I picked the coin up and flicked off a little dust bunny. "You never did tell me what this was all about," I ventured.

House's eyes met and held mine, and I tried to focus on his words while searching their depths. I saw uncertainty before he shut me out, but he also seemed pleased that I still had his gift. "Sure I did. It's for luck."

"Oh. Well, thanks," I said and reached for my jacket, thanking the Powers That Be for his lack of comment on _why_ I was holding the penny in the first place.

His lips quirked. "What were you dreaming about just now?"

Ah, he just had more important questions to ask. "I don't remember."

"Yes you do. Did it involve chocolate syrup and Cameron?" He smirked. "You were smiling."

"I dreamt of a world in which I did not have to trade my dignity for having a top-notch doctor in my hospital."

He was following me out the door. "There's nothing undignified about wanting a threesome. It's a very common fantasy. You, me, Cameron, and some whipped cream."

I stepped into the elevator; he didn't. Giving him my killer 100-watt smile, I said, "Who said anything about _you _being there?" With cinematically perfect timing, the door slid closed in his astonished face.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it takes me a while to update. This is the busy season in my profession.

A heartfelt thank you for all the encouragement and kind reviews!

---

For a couple of weeks, I carried the penny in my pocket. Then one day I absentmindedly dropped some spare change in with it – thank God I'd looked at it closely before, or I never would have been able to sort it back out from the rest of the coins.

"I've been keeping it in a plastic bag, but that seems a little impersonal," I explained to Wilson over lunch one day.

He nodded, his thoughtful brown eyes scanning the cafeteria. We both knew House could show up at any moment. "You should get a special container for it or something." He grinned sappily. "A locket."

"It's a penny, not a lock of his hair," I said skeptically, stirring my bowl of frozen yogurt.

Wilson's eyes twinkled. "He might as _well_ have given you a lock of his hair..."

My teeth clenched. "Are you _ever _going to explain all this to me," I groaned, "or are you just gonna leave me hanging?"

"Much more fun to leave you hanging. Besides, it's not my place to explain it."

"You're _enjoying_ this," I accused.

"Damn right."

Maybe if I pretended to be sad, worked up some alligator tears, I could get him to crack. _No_, I told myself, _that wouldn't be fair._ Wilson's a sweet guy; I couldn't take advantage of him that way. "Wanna bet?" laughed my increasingly rebellious inner voice.

I looked down at the table sadly. "Whatever this is, I'm sure it's very sweet," I sighed softly. "I just wish for something a little more solid. The slightest hint that this isn't all some big joke."

Wilson's brown eyes flickered and I saw the sympathy there – replaced quickly by amusement. He spends _way_ too much time with House. "What do you take me for?"

"It was worth a try," I said sheepishly. "Can't you at least give me a tiny hint?"

He considered. "Ask me ten yes-or-no questions."

"Okay... Does this specific penny have sentimental value for House?"

"Yes. Well, as 'sentimental' as House gets, anyway."

"All right... Does the _year_ on the penny have significance?"

"Not really."

"Does its _condition_ have significance?"

"Um... lemme see it for a minute."

I retrieved the baggie and handed it over. Wilson smiled slightly as he examined it up close. "I don't think so," he said and gave it back.

I pocketed it and asked, "How did he get it?"

"That's not a yes-or-no question."

"Fine... Did he get it back as change?"

"No," he said, but his eyes flashed oddly.

"Did he... find it in a parking lot on an important day?"

"No."

"Did he steal it?"

"Mmmm... not really. Well, I mean... it's a just a penny. One could argue that it wouldn't really be theft... Okay, if by 'steal' you mean forcibly take from an unwilling or unsuspecting owner, then no."

"Did _you_ give it to him?"

"No."

"Did another person give it to him?" I asked, suddenly anxious. What if House was like those men who break off engagements and then give the same ring to the next girl? _I don't want a secondhand penny_, I said to myself unreasonably.

"No. And you have two more questions."

"He said it was a 'lucky' penny. Is luck, chance, somehow involved here?"

"Um... define 'involved.'"

Wilson would've made a good lawyer. "Did the circumstances by which he obtained this item involve him having good luck?"

"No. Last one."

"Okay... Were you _there_ when House got it?"

"Yes. And that's all you get for today."

"Well, it's not very helpful," I grumbled.

"Sorry."

"I _am_ going to find out, you know."

"I have absolutely no doubt of it," he replied merrily.

"Can't you just--"

"_Red alert,"_ he muttered suddenly.

Before I could grasp his meaning, a hand struck out from behind me and stole my spoon. House pushed his way into the booth beside me, forcing me over. The seat was really designed for one, so his large frame sandwiched me against the wall. "Oh, _hell_ yes!" my inner voice giggled gleefully.

Side note: Apparently my inner voice really needed to get some. Remember me saying, fifty percent lust, fifty percent "other?" My inner voice would be the first one. I realize that for most people the primary inner voice is the subconscious, the quiet proddings of intuition. Not for me. For me she's just a perv.

"Mmm," House hummed, licking the spoon lasciviously_. _"Strawberry."

Oh, to be a spoon. "It's raspberry," I corrected him.

He turned and looked me in the eye, running his tongue over the spoon again. Daaaaamn..."Whatever. It's _yummy._"I was certain he could see my face flush.

Wilson obviously could. He sighed from across the table. "Why don't you two just get a room?"

"That's okay," House told him, then turned back to me. "We don't mind if Wilson stays, do we, Cuddy? We'll just grope each other under the table. He won't even notice, as long as you can keep the moaning to a minimum." He gestured lightly at Wilson with my spoon, giving me time to compose myself after his lewd suggestion. "Carry on, then. What were you talking about?"

I snatched back the spoon and slid my bowl over. "Nothing. Just small talk. Beautiful weather we're having, and all that."

Now House was munching on Wilson's chips, leaving a trail of crumbs on the tabletop. "Sounds boring."

"Sorry," Wilson said sarcastically. "Next time we'll let you proofread our script first."

"Actually, I already have a script you can use--"

"We're not going to re-enact one of your pornos," Wilson quipped.

Wilson had beaten him to the punch, but House recovered smoothly. "Damn right you're not." His arm went up and around me, his hand tugging playfully on my hair before settling on my shoulder. "This is _my_ territory."

I felt my eyes widen in astonishment, but this bizarre twist was interrupted by the buzz of Wilson's pager. He looked at me apologetically and pushed his tray across the table. "911, gotta go. Here, House, you can have the rest of this."

I expected House to move into the absent seat, but instead he just pulled back his arm and picked at Wilson's sandwich. After a moment, he turned toward me with a complete change of demeanor. "Still have it?" He looked... my God, he looked shy, a little worried even.

Startled, I could only nod.

A ghost of a smile passed over his lips. He nodded once. "Good." Before I could respond, both House and the sandwich had vanished.

---

I lay in bed with the antique sterling locket between my breasts, watching it glow dully in the light of the waning moon. I'd wrapped the penny in a scrap of cloth to keep it from clattering against the pendant's metal.

At first, I'd felt silly about taking Wilson's suggestion. But really, what harm is a little occasional feminine sentimentality? Clearly this meant something to House, and therefore it meant something to me. In case you hadn't guessed, the "other" fifty percent also had a voice – a voice that was getting more and more insistent.

I dreamt, again, of blue eyes and a genuine smile.

---

A/N2: I _might_ end up having another yes-or-no Q&A with Wilson and Cuddy, so I'm open to suggestions for questions...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I took a some liberties in this chapter with regards to New Jersey laws. Which is a writerly way of saying that I don't have a clue and was too lazy to do the research, so I just made it all up. :)

I'm not really fond of flashbacks as a plot device... but as writers say, it's better to show than tell, and in this case I need to give my dear readers information that our friend Cuddy doesn't yet have.

Thanks for all the reviews. And I promise the penny really does mean something – it's not just House messing with Cuddy's head. ;) It all came to me, in a very J.K. Rowling way, while I was writing the previous chapter.

-----

_November 2008_

"_I'm not drunk," the blonde man slurred._

"_Nope," the older one said, "Me neither."_

_Peter returned their licenses, but dangled the younger man's car keys on one finger. Hecrossed his arms and looked from one man to the other, shaking his head in amusement. Most drunks were either violent or passed out, but these two were actually pretty entertaining. He eyed the taller one's cane warily. The man looked strong, solidly built, but tired. Neither of the two seemed belligerent, but you never knew. _

"_That's your car?" Peter pointed toward the only vehicle left outside the bar besides his own cruiser. The younger one nodded._

"_Seriushly," the taller one said, leaning heavily on the cane. His breath made puffs of white that glowed in the light of the streetlamps. "You gotta let us go," he gave a charming half-smile, "or people're gonna die."_

"House_," the younger man rebuked, and then turned back to Peter. "He din't mean it that way. We really" - he hiccupped - "we're doctors. We gotta go, he just got paged."_

"_Serioshly," 'House' repeated. He extended his hand, the pager resting in the upturned palm. "See? It'sh buzzing. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....." _

God,_ Peter thought, _these two are like something out of a sitcom._ "You're drunk in public," he informed them flatly. The pager was indeed buzzing, though._

"_Well, I don't know about _drunk_," the blonde said affably. "Have we had a few? Sure."_

"_Aw, tell the truth, Wilshon. We've had more than a few."_

"_Will you shut - " hiccup - "up? I'm trying to get us out of night in jail. And, what the _hell?Now_ you want honesty?"_

"_Meh. It wouldn't be the first time, for either of us." He turned back to Peter. "In jail, I mean."_

"_I gathered," the officer answered dryly._

"_Yesh but it was one or the other of us," Wilson said. "Ushuly not both."_

"_So what?" His voice echoed across the open square, rebounding off the cobblestones._

"_Sooooo...." the blonde stumbled slightly, "soooo, _You Know Who_ would have to bail us both out this time."_

_The one called "House" sobered visibly. "That would be bad."_

"_Yesh, that's the last thing you need tonight."_

"_'You Know Who?'" Peter asked._

"_'She Who Must Not Be Named,'" Wilson told him dramatically._

"_Also known as 'Medusa,'" House said._

"_Right." Peter pocketed Wilson's keys and reached for a small case on his police belt. "I'm going to need to administer a Breathalyzer test on each of you." _

"_What?" Wilson asked incredulously. "But we weren't driving, we're just walking. Just hangin' out, getting fresh air, talking--"_

"_Uh huh," Peter said, pulling the cap off the small device. "And I guess you were just going to walk right home from here? You both live miles away and there's no nearby bus stop. You're drunk and disorderly and you were headed for your vehicle."_

"_We're not dish... dishorderly," Wilson insisted._

_House shifted his leg and winced. "Jus' let 'im do it," he advised. "Trusht me, it's better to cooperate."_

_Wilson looked sobered now, himself. "Oh, right. Okay. Sorry."_

_Having already checked their records, Peter understood this reaction. He gestured toward the shorter man. "Blow into the end until I say stop... And, stop." He glanced at the readout. "Point one-oh," he announced. "Over the legal limit. Afraid you won't be getting your keys back tonight, sir."_

"_Lightweight," scoffed his companion._

_Peter switched the B__reathalyzer mouthpiece and stuck it into House's mouth. "Aaaand... stop." He frowned. "Well, what do you know? Point oh-four."_

"_See?" Wilson laughed. "Told you we're not drunk."_

"You_ are. _He_ isn't, though." He looked at House through narrowed eyes. "You're sure _acting_ like you are."_

_Wilson laughed again, louder this time. "Well, he didn't have as many as me but I'm sure the combination of alcohol and Vi--"_

"_Violence!" said House quickly. " We saw a bar fight earlier. Violence gets me hi—um, off. You know, the ol' testosterone." He offered what he seemed to think was another winning smile._

_Peter sighed. It was going on four o'clock and it had been a long night. "All right, look. Mr. House--"_

"Doctor_," House corrected._

"Doctor_ House, you are under the legal limit. Even so, I am going to ask you to call a cab and get you and your buddy here back home. One of you has a cell phone, I hope?"_

"_Yesh _sir!_" Wilson snapped upright and saluted._

_The officer ignored him, still addressing House. "Once he sobers up, he can pick up his keys at the five-one-four. I'm going to get in my cruiser and get back to my patrol. I will be back down this street in an hour. If I see you still here, I will arrest you both – drunk or not. Am I clear, _Doctor_ House?"_

_House nodded briskly. "Crystal."_

_-----_

"_What_ are you wearing?" House goggled in amazement at my chest.

I looked down. "It's called a 'turtleneck.' Great new invention."

His head cocked from side to side as he peered at me. "But... but you've hidden the twins."

Turning away to hide a grin, I opened a filing cabinet and rummaged through the manilla folders. "It's cold out."

His hand grazed my hip. "Maybe I could warm you up."

"Or _maybe_ you could get back to work." I turned back around and smashed into him. He barely budged, holding his ground. His eyes went from mine, to my chest, and back again. Oh, we were having a moment, all right. "Little Lisa," as I had taken to calling my inner voice, giggled and locked my kneecaps so I couldn't move away.

"I don't have a case."

"Then clinic duty." I was starting to squirm a little under his gaze. "Or, go _find_ a case."

"I'd rather find your--" his eyes slid back south, but settled above my breasts this time. He poked at the disc that laid against my breastbone, raised slightly beneath the black fabric. "What's this?"

I walked abruptly around him and toward the door of the file storage room, my folders up against my chest. "Get back to work," I looked back and ordered, but it was too late. His eyes had narrowed and I could see the gears turning. He followed me out the door.

"What are you hiding under there?" he asked, limping along beside me. "I mean, other than the love melons?"

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere? Go do something productive before I fire your ass." I took a sharp left and made a beeline for the stairs. Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry for his handicap, but that doesn't have to stop me from using it to my advantage when I need a quick escape.

"Ha. You'll never fire me – or my hot ass." He grabbed my arm, pulling me around suddenly as I took one step up. For the second time in recent memory, his entire attitude seemed to shift instantaneously. "Wait a second," he said softly.

The step put our eyes level, for once. I dropped my tone to match his. "What?"

House bit his lip nervously and looked away. He was obviously trying to work up some courage.

I heard my own breath hitch. "House, whatever's going on--"

"I... I can't. Not yet." His eyes met mine and I remembered my dream, when his very soul had been laid bare for me alone. The intense blue bored into me, imploring and fearful. "But soon," he whispered, and it sounded like half plea, half placation. His hand came up slowly and one finger pressed the disc against my chest. His eyebrows raised in a silent question.

I nodded very slightly, smiling faintly. His eyes lit up. He drew back his shoulders as if he'd just dropped a heavy burden. What could have been relief passed over his features.

"Now go find a case," I said firmly. I waited until he was out of sight before reaching up to feel the outline of the locket around my neck.

-----

"I need ten more questions," I said without preamble, slamming Wilson's door behind me.

He looked up with a smile. "Nice turtleneck."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, are you gonna help me or not?"

"Sure, why not?" His laptop snapped closed with a _snick._

"Okay. Question one: Did House get this penny within a hundred-mile radius of this hospital?"

"Yes."

"A ten-mile radius?"

"Yes."

"Question two: did he get it _here,_ at this hospital?"

"No. And that was question three."

"Whatever. Was it indoors, or outdoors?"

"That's not a yes-or-no--"

"_For God's sake, Wilson!_ Fine! Was it _indoors?"_

"No."

"Okay, it was outdoors then. But not in a parking lot – you said that last time." I thought for a moment. "Did he... oh! Did he take it out of a wishing well?"

Wilson's lips quirked. "No."

I looked at him suspiciously. "Are you lying to me?"

"No. And that was question number six."

"That's not fair, that wasn't part--"

"Next _question_, please."

I glared, mentally vowing to make him pay. "Does this have anything to do with another woman?"

Wilson looked surprised. "No." He huffed meaningfully. "No, there is no other woman."

I smiled in relief, instantly forgiving him for stealing one of my questions. "Um... Okay, the timing. Did the discovery of this penny happen within the last... five years?"

"Yes."

"Within the last year?"

"Yes. And this is your last question."

I paused. "Does the penny symbolize something? Is this all one of House's convoluted metaphors?"

"That's two questions, to which I will simply answer: yes."

"Yes to _which? _Or _both?_"

But he would only smile.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry if the last chapter's flashback confused anyone, but in order to make the story work we have to go outside Cuddy's head. Just so it's clear, the flashback in italics at the beginning of this chapter (and all the flashbacks, actually) are part of the same incident with House and Wilson. (Which, by the way, takes place shortly after "The Itch.") The rest is from Cuddy's point of view.

Just a reminder, this story ignores Rachel and takes place before House goes wacko. So it's really AU at this point.

Thanks for the great reviews.

–

_November 2008_

_The sound of Wilson's phone snapping shut echoed down the deserted street. "Cab'll be here in a few," he said._

"_My leg hurts," House told him. "How long?"_

"_I'm a doctor, not a psychic. I said a few minutes."_

"_I need to sit."_

"_So sit."_

_House gestured irritably at the uneven cobblestones. "I can't sit here, I won't be able to get up."_

"_Oh, sorry. Give me a moment. I'll just magically mater... materiali..." His lips couldn't form the word. "I'll make a comfy chair just for you."_

"_There's gotta be – look, around the corner there. The fountain."_

"_Right." Too tipsy to recognize the irony of House walking 20 yards in order to _rest_ his leg, Wilson pocketed his phone and reached for the other man's arm._

"_Leave me alone," House grumbled, shaking him off. "I'm a cripple, not a... oh, just come on."_

_They made their way slowly through the public square, across the street and toward the gray fountain. "You're a chicken," Wilson accused._

"_Shut up. I told you I don't want to talk about it."_

"_Right. You just want to get drunk and forget the whole thing."_

"_I'm not drunk, 'member?" House plopped down on the edge of the fountain. "Ossifer Johnson said so."_

"_I think his name was Dick. And please, you're high as a kite," Wilson said, scooping up a handful of frigid water and flicking it toward House. _

"_Hey! You trying to give me pneumonia? And the cop's name was Peter."_

"_I'm trying to sober you up."_

"_Oh, I'm sober," he answered and popped a couple of Vicodin. "In every sense of the word."_

_There was a pause. Wilson sat down, drying his hand on his jacket. "You need to talk about this, House."_

"_I..."_

"_What?"_

"_I _am_ a chicken. I'm a coward. And I'm an idiot." He stared morosely at his cane, lacking even the energy to lean it against the fountain's edge. Instead he merely watched as it rolled down the outside of his leg and clattered to the ground._

"_You're human."_

"_I'm..."_

"_You're afraid."_

_His silence was answer enough. Somewhere, a cat howled. _

–

Saturday morning I woke up smiling. Finally, I'd managed to stay asleep long enough to see the end of that dream. House in my office, House twirling that cane with hypnotic grace, House meeting my eyes, and – well, I'll save the details for later. For now, the whole weekend stretched out ahead of me with all its potential, an invitation to freedom. For me, that meant freedom from paperwork, freedom from lawsuit threats, freedom from disgruntled employees, and –

And based on the ringing of the doorbell, apparently not freedom from unexpected guests. Wrapping my robe around me, I groused a bit at whoever had the audacity to pester me on my day off.

I looked through the peephole but there was nobody there, so I opened the door a crack. Can't be too careful when you're a single woman living alone. After a moment I pulled the heavy door all the way open. Nothing. Probably neighborhood kids, playing a prank. I stuck my feet into a pair of Crocs and shuffled out to get the newspaper.

"Good morning!" called my elderly neighbor from across the street.

"Hi!" I returned. "Hey, did you see anyone ringing my doorbell just now?"

She nodded and crossed the street, garden hoe still in her grip. "It was a _man,_" she told me, as if it were the scandal of the decade.

_Great_. "What did he look like?"

"Oh, I couldn't really see his face."

"What was he wearing?"

"Blue jeans and a sweatshirt. The hood was up."

"Was he driving a car," I asked slowly, "or...?"

"Yes," she said, "it was blue."

_Well, that's unhelpful,_ I thought. "Was he tall?"

"It's hard to say, from so far off..."

"Well, thanks for letting me know." I looked up and down the street, seeing nothing unusual, and then headed back up the driveway. It was a little creepy. Neighborhood kids being silly, I can deal with. Grown men ringing my doorbell and running away... not so much. _What sort of grown man would--_ _oh. Right. _I frowned. _But _his_ car is red,_ I reminded myself forcefully.

Then, I approached the door and saw something on the step that I hadn't noticed on my way out. Dead center on the top step... a penny.

---

Wilson, I have to tell you, is pretty cute when he wakes up in the morning. His hair sticks out at all angles and he always wears either flannel pajamas or boxers and a t-shirt. And please don't ask me how I know that. Anyway, today it was the PJ's – baby blue with a pocket on the right breast. He ran a hand through his mussed-up hair and gave me a lopsided smile, then redirected his gaze back to the single penny I'd placed in the center of his coffee table. This one, newer than the last, gleamed dully in a shaft of morning sunlight.

"Your car is silver."

"Uh, yeah."

"Whoever left this at my door drove a blue car. It wasn't House, there's no way he could've gotten away so fast."

"He probably just hired someone to do it."

"Looks that way."

Wilson shrugged, nodding toward the table. "So. Another one, huh?" he said rhetorically.

I looked him right in the eye with my best stern boss frown. "You _will_ explain this to me. Now."

"Sorry, no can do." He leaned back and draped his arms over the sofa as if to accentuate his complete lack of intimidation. Guess I'm losing my touch. "You can ask me more questions, though."

I huffed in frustration. "Can't you just _tell_ me?"

He only smiled, clearly enjoying having the upper hand. "I'll even give you eleven questions this time, instead of ten."

"Forget it. Tell him I don't want to play any more."

"Okay." He stood up. "Want some coffee?"

I glared. He was calling my bluff. "_Fine. _Eleven answers. And it has to be 'hot, warm, cold,' this time, not just yes or no."

Wilson's grin widened and he padded into the kitchen while I tried to come up with some new questions. "Okay!" I called. "The pennies are a metaphor?"

"Hot."

"What could pennies be a symbol of?" I thought aloud. "Pennies, coins, money... abundance, wealth..."

"Cold."

I jumped up and started pacing. "Evil. The love of money is the root of all--"

"Cold."

"Money buys the things we want... want, need, desire..."

I saw Wilson's expression change when I said "desire." But he merely handed me a steaming mug and said, "Lukewarm."

"This is about something House desires?"

"Do you _really_ need to use up one of your questions on _that?_" He gingerly sipped his own coffee.

I coughed a little at that. Let's be real: I'd known from the start what the general theme was, but hearing someone else acknowledge it – even sideways – was priceless. Still: let him say it out loud. "House wants me."

"Of course he does."

"I mean..." I hesitated. "He wants _me._"

"As in, not just your body? Coincidentally: Hot."

I sat back down, cradling the mug between my hands. "Why can't he just _say it_ then?"

"Because he lives in a world of metaphors, symbols, and wordplay."

"Indirect. Safe. Easy to misinterpret. Leaves room for the panic, for changing his mind, for denial."

"Hot."

We were silent for several minutes, only the sound of birds and passing cars filtering in through an open window. "Metaphors, symbols, and wordplay," I muttered to myself.

"House doesn't see the world like we do," Wilson said earnestly. "We see an object, we see an object. He sees the object, _and_ what it represents, _and_ its history, _and_ who might have owned it, and so on."

"I know. He's always been like that. It's what makes him such a genius – his ability to make connections where no one else can. He never seemed to understand that not all of us think that way. I see an apple, I think of an apple, not of apple blossoms and hard cider and... and Issac Newton. When I see a penny, I think of a penny--" I put the mug down and picked up the new coin, "-- not Lincoln, or the strength of the dollar, or the rise in the copper markets."

"Yes," Wilson said. "To understand the pennies, you have to start thinking the way he does."

"So it really isn't anything related to money."

He nodded. "Hot."

I pulled the silver locket out from under my shirt, popped it open, and dropped the original penny into my hand with the new one. I rubbed the coins together, then took one in each hand and tapped them against each other. "The fact that there are two now, the number two, this is significant?"

"Cold."

"The fact that there are _more_ now than before, indicates an increase in something?"

"That I don't really know, although I suspect you're warm there. I know their origin and what they represent to House, but he hasn't talked to me about... whatever this new plan is."

"There are more pennies than just these?"

"Hot."

"You said you were with him when he got these. It happened fairly near the hospital, and it was somewhat recently. Outdoors but not in a parking lot or a wishing well."

"Yes – I mean, hot. What number question are we on?"

"I don't remember. The pennies were on the ground? On soil?"

"Cold."

"Well, where the hell else do you find coins outside? On the ground or in a wishing well are pretty much your only options, unless they were some other body of water."

"Getting warmer."

"Water, water... the beach."

"Cold."

"A river, a lake."

"Cold."

"A puddle, a storm drain, a pond."

"Cold."

"A man-made water source. A... a _fountain._"

"Hot."

"Finally!" I couldn't help but smile. "A fountain. A fountain where people throw coins _for luck._"

"Told you it was luck-related, but that it wasn't his luck that let him find them."

"No, he just stole other people's wishes out of a public fountain. How very like him."

"I think you've probably used up your question quota for today."

"But we didn't really get anywhere!" I complained, jangling the pennies in one hand. "The only new information is where he got them, which tells me nothing about the rest of this ridiculous game!"

"You're loving this 'game' as much as he is," Wilson said, "and you know it."

"Well... well, it is kind of fun," I admitted. "But _still._ I wish you'd tell me more, because right now these are _still_ just so much spare change!" I slapped the pennies down on the table.

Wilson jumped slightly at the metallic sound, but I caught the quick smile that flickered across his face.

And then, I knew.

---

A/N2: Totally unrelated, but who else thinks House cooking is just the most adorable thing ever?!


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